Religion harfh, intolerant, auftere,

Parent of manners like herself fevere,

Drew a rough copy of the Chriftian face
Without the fmile, the fweetness, or the grace;
The dark and fullen humour of the time
Judged every effort of the muse a crime;
Verfe, in the fineft mould of fancy caft,

Was lumber in an age fo void of tafte:
But when the fecond Charles affumed the fway,
And arts revived beneath a fofter day,
Then, like a bow long forced into a curve,

The mind, releafed from too conftrained a nerve,
Flew to its firft pofition with a spring,
That made the vaulted roofs of pleasure ring.
His court, the diffolute and hateful fchool
Of wantonnef's, where vice was taught by rule,
Swarmed with a fcribbling herd, as deep inlaid
With brutal luft as ever Circe made.

From these a long fucceffion, in the rage
Of rank obfcenity, debauched their age;
Nor ceafed, till, ever anxious to redrefs
The abuses of her facred charge, the prefs,
The mufe inftru&ted a well-nurtured train
Of abler votaries to cleanse the ftain,

And claim the palm for purity of fong,
That lewdnefs had ufurped and worn fo long.

Then decent pleasantry and sterling sense,
That neither gave nor would endure offence,
Whipped out of fight, with satire just and keen,
The puppy pack that had defiled the scene.
In front of thefe came Addison. In him

Humour in holiday and fightly trim,
Sublimity and attic tafte, combined,
To polish, furnish, and delight, the mind.
Then Pope, as harmony itself exact,

In verfe well disciplined, complete, compact,
Gave virtue and morality a grace,

That, quite eclipfing pleasure's painted face,
Levied a tax of wonder and applause,

Even on the fools that trampled on their laws.
But he (his mufical finesse was such,

So nice his ear, fo delicate his touch)
Made poetry a mere mechanic art;

And every warbler has his tune by heart.
Nature imparting her fatiric gift,

Her ferious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift,
With droll fobriety they raised a smile

At folly's coft, themselves unmoved the while.
That conftellation fet, the world in vain

Muft hope to look upon their like again.

A. Are we then left-B. Not wholly in the dark; Wit now and then, ftruck smartly, fhows a spark,

Sufficient to redeem the modern race
From total night and absolute difgrace.
While fervile trick and imitative knack
Confine the million in the beaten track,
Perhaps fome courfer who difdains the road,
Snuffs up the wind, and flings himself abroad.
Contemporaries all furpaffed, fee one;
Short his career, indeed, but ably run;
Churchill; himfelf unconscious of his powers,
In pentury confumed his idle hours;

And, like a scattered feed at random fown,
Was left to fpring by vigour of his own.
Lifted at length, by dignity of thought
And dint of genius, to an affluent lot,
He laid his head in luxury's foft lap,
And took, too often, there his easy nap.
If brighter beams than all he threw not forth,
'Twas negligence in him, not want of worth.
Surly and flovenly, and bold and coarse,
Too proud for art, and trufting in mere force,
Spendthrift alike of money and of wit,
Always at speed, and never drawing bit,
He ftruck the lyre in fuch a careless mood,
And fo difdained the rules he understood,
The laurel feemed to wait on his command,
He fnatched it rudely from the mufe,' ha d.

Nature, exerting an unwearied power,
Forms, opens, and gives fcent to, every flower;
Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads
The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads :
She fills profufe ten thousand little throats

With mufic, modulating all their notes;

And charms the woodland fcenes, and wilds unknown,
With artlefs airs and concerts of her own:
But feldom (as if fearful of expenfe)
Vouchfafes to man a poet's just pretence-
Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought,
Harmony, ftrength, words exquifitely fought;
Fancy, that from the bow, that spans the fky,
Brings colours, dipt in heaven, that never die;
A foul exalted above earth, a mind

Skilled in the characters that form mankind;
And, as the fun in rifing beauty dreffed,
Looks to the weftward from the dappled eaft,
And marks, whatever clouds may interpofe,
Ere yet his race begins, its glorious clofe;
An eye like his to catch the diftant goal;
Or, ere the wheels of verfe begin to roll,
Like his to fhed illuminating rays
On every fcene and subject it furveys:
Thus graced, the man afferts a poet's name,
And the world cheerfully admits the claim.

Pity religion has fo feldom found

A fkilful guide into poetic ground!

The flowers would spring wherever she deigned to stray,
And every mufe attend her in her way.
Virtue indeed meets many a rhiming friend,
And many a compliment politely penned;
But, unattired in that becoming vest
Religion weaves for her, and half undreffed,
Stands in the defert, fhivering and forlorn,
A wintry figure, like a withered thorn.
The shelves are full, all other themes are fped;
Hackneyed and worn to the laft flimsy thread,
Satire has long fince done his best; and curft
And loathfome ribaldry has done his worst;
Fancy has fported all her powers away
In tales, in trifles, and in children's play ;
And 'tis the fad complaint, and almoft true,
Whatever we write, we bring forth nothing new.
'Twere new indeed to fee a hard all fire,

Touched with a coal from heaven, affume the lyre,
And tell the world, ftill kindling as he fung,
With more than mortal mufic on his tongue,
That He, who died below, and reigns above,
Infpires the fong, and that his name is love.

For, after all, if merely to beguile,
By flowing numbers and a flowery style,